Laneways, Markets, and Relentless Sun

The sun is relentless. Forty degrees, nearly every day, with afternoons at their fiercest. Even for someone who grew up perpetually sunburnt, this kind of persistent heat feels a little intimidating. Is this the new normal?

We spent the weekend in the city, ticking off the usual city rituals. A trip to the Vic Market with the kids and my father-in-law, a fellow devotee. A morning swim in the bay. Navigating the labyrinth that is now Myer—overwhelming, unfamiliar, bright and shiny. Walking from the market into the heart of the city reminded me how much I love being on foot here. Winding through laneways with the girls, reminding them to look up, pointing out fragments of old Melbourne. (PS—watch The Lost City of Melbourne; it’s fascinating and a little heartbreaking to see what once was.)

Moving through the CBD, I felt equal parts tourist and local. Memories flitted by—laneway lunch breaks, cigarettes on stoops, boozy dinners with friends, a romantic dalliance. Landmarks may vanish, but the city’s scent lingers, and hints of old Melbourne reveal themselves if you take the time to look up.

A stop at South Melbourne Market yielded the usual staples and a cheese-and-spinach borek—the only reasonably priced lunch left in town.

Our city dinners are modest, made in a micro kitchen. One night, linguine with garlicky olive oil, chilli, parsley, and generous handfuls of pecorino. The next, after the Vic Market haul, 2 kilos of Mount Martha mussels steamed in white wine, tomato, and shallot, with crusty Woodfrog spelt bread for mopping up. The green salad seemed like a good idea until it collided with the tomato broth—note to self: need more bowls for city visits.

Returning home, the garden is well and truly scorched, battered by the sun and wind. We wait eagerly for grapes, apples, and a few motley plums. Peaches are still two weeks away. Maybe.

Photograph: Kirsty Davey